


The Wild Abandoned

by Onceuponadisneypotter



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (Geralt gets rocks thrown at him and animals are hunted for food), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, no beta we die like renfri, tw: suicide mention (very briefly; a character makes mistaken assumptions)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27337282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceuponadisneypotter/pseuds/Onceuponadisneypotter
Summary: When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell. He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.* * *Jaskier didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 70
Kudos: 628





	1. The Wild Abandoned

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is (almost) finished! But it's 5 past midnight here and I am very tired, so I will write & upload the rest tomorrow. I hope you enjoy this first chapter!

Animals following him wasn’t that unusual, all things considered. Most creatures were curious about this strange, not-quite-human being travelling through their territory, but even when Geralt fed them the scraps of his own meal none of them had followed him for - Geralt narrowed his eyes and mentally tallied. For five days, at least. Of which Geralt spent only three asleep, deciding to hurry his travels as his coin ran out. He had heard rumours of Posada looking for a Witcher, and - although he hated himself for it - he hoped none had shown up yet. He did not have to check his purse to know there was only one coin left in it, nor did he need to check his supplies to know they were dwindling. Geralt sighed as he heard the creature following him speed up to catch up with the chestnut mare. Whatever it was, it would be scared away as soon as he arrived in Posada. If there was any lesson Geralt had learned over and over and over again during his time on the Path, it was to never get attached. 

In Posada, he met a bard named Jaskier, and his life changed.

Two decades later, on a mountain, half the continent over, his life changed again.

When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell. 

He knew the smell of humans lingered, but five days, an equal amount of baths in the Gwenllech and three un- and repackings of his supplies later, Geralt could still faintly smell the bard’s distinctive, pinewood, autumn leaves and wolf's fur smell, although the flowery perfume he usually masked it with was gone.

Geralt tried to blame his surroundings for creating the smell, but he knew there were no pine trees to be found for at least a hundred miles.

It was still the middle of summer as well.

He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.

* * *

He knew it was still too early to arrive in Kaer Morhen, so although this far North wasn’t his usual territory, he took whichever jobs he could get. The benefit of breaking out of his usual stomping grounds was, aside from the fact that the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’-legend was not tied to his name, that Jaskier’s ~~joyful catchy kind~~ annoying songs hadn’t reached the area either. A group of drowners, two frighteners, a wreight and a cockatrice later, he could almost forget what happened on the mountain.

Almost.

It wasn’t till the beginning of October, after the wreight but before the second frightener, that Geralt noticed he was being followed. The animal seemingly attempted not to get noticed, timing his footsteps at the exact rhythm of the latest Roach, a horse with a surprisingly consistent walk. Geralt did not know how long it had been following him, but that night he purposefully didn’t finish the rabbit he had hunted and roasted, throwing the bones with plenty of meat in the bushes behind him, in the general direction of the sound of softly padded paws touching the forest floor. 

The next day, the bones and meat were still there.

The sound, however, was gone.

He tried not to let the overwhelming silence bother him.

Three days later, Geralt was almost convinced his offer had scared the creature away. Either that, or the pouring rain had caused the animal to give up on his curious pursuit, and find shelter somewhere in the cavernous mountains. The resulting floods paid Geralt’s next meal and shelter as he took care of the drowners plaguing one of the small Northern villages. They pay had been small, but the citizens thanked him for arriving so quickly. For a moment he feared that the villagers would burst into an all-too-familiar song, but instead they told him a neighbouring place needed his help as well. 

After fighting the second freightner, the now-familiar sound of the animal’s steps returned. So did the rains, and Geralt decided to cut this season short and turn his meandering route into a direct journey to Kaer Morhen, the closest thing to a home he knew, except for- No. The closest thing to a home he knew. Geralt stared at the deer-made path ahead of him and banned all thoughts from a certain bard out of his head.

* * *

The creature, whatever it was, kept following him. If his medallion hadn’t stayed silent, Geralt would almost be worried. It was far away from its own territory now that the towering, deciduous-treed and cavernous Dragon Mountains had been replaced by the equally towering but pine-treed, steep-cliffed Blue Mountains. The creature hadn’t accepted a single offer of food, or shelter, or warmth. Not even when Geralt, silently cursing his own idiocy, had called out into the forest that the food thrown away was intended for this mysterious pursuer. 

Geralt almost considered travelling the long way so he would pass through the planes, simply to see if the creature would follow, would allow himself to be seen, but that morning he woke up covered in a thin layer of snow. 

He saddled Roach, saw his latest offering of food was once again ignored, and hastened his journey towards Kaer Morhen. 

The creature followed, even during the treacherous journey towards the Witchers’ Castle.

Geralt almost resented the idea of wintering inside, since the creature would surely leave before spring.

‘You can’t follow me inside, you know. A castle isn’t fit for wild animals to thrive,’ Geralt had called into the dark two nights before arriving home. ‘You should go back. To your territory. To your family, if you have one. And if not, I am sure that you will be able to start one, if you are strong enough to follow me this far.’

His reply, as usual, had been silence.

The next day, the creature followed still.

* * *

‘Geralt! You’re uncharacteristically early,’ Vesemir greeted him at the gate.

‘Stayed North this time. I- I was already on my way back, simply hurried my way when the snow started.’

‘You were on your way back? Did that bard of yours finally take that teaching position Oxenfurt has been begging him to accept?’

Geralt placed his bags on the stable floor a little more violently than needed.

‘He’s not my bard. And I don’t care what he is doing right now. It’s not my concern.’

That evening, after a bath in the hot springs and a nice bowl of soup eaten next to the safety and warmth of the fire, the entire story came out, and Vesimir’s heart bled for his young pup.

* * *

Geralt didn’t mention the strange creature that had been following him until Eskel arrived two weeks later, mentioning that he had been followed for the last days of his journey home. 

He wasn’t jealous at all when Lambert, arriving five days later, reported he had seen a wolf-like creature from a distance. Nor did he find an excuse to leave the dinner table to train his frustration away when Lambert said he had even fed the creature, for it looked haggard and ragged.

* * *

They didn’t speak of the creature till mid-December, when the three men went out into the snowy wilderness to hunt for fresh meat.

The creature was still there, following them from a distance. 

‘If that thing ate every living thing on the mountain, we might not catch any prey at all,’ Eskel wondered aloud after two hours of fruitless searching.

‘Well, it clearly didn’t eat  _ every  _ living thing on this mountain,’ Lambert replied, to a frowning Eskel.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we’re still here.’

‘I would barely call you ‘living’,’ Eskel retorted, steadying his stance just in time for Lambert to pounce on him.

‘Shh guys!’ Geralt hissed, focussing on a sudden burst of sound in the forest. A running predator, a fleeing prey, breaking branches, noises rapidly going louder until  _ CRACK  _ a frightened deer broke through a frozen bush, leaping over Eskel, a panicked cry as the Witcher grabbed her leg and pulled her down. 

‘It does feel pretty unfair,’ Lambert mused as they dragged the carcass back to the castle. ‘This isn’t our prey, we stole it from that wolf. Should we, like, leave a part of it as some sort of thanks?’

Geralt ignored his two brothers but did hold out his bloodied sword when they decided to leave a part of the animal behind.

The next morning, the Witchers were woken up by a loud howl. When Geralt looked outside, he saw a bloody trail leading from the forest to the castle gate, where their offering was returned. ‘Looks like we didn’t steal its prey after all.’

* * *

The knowledge that, outside of the thick, stone walls, there was some creature looking out for them, made it a strange winter. From the brief glances in the dark evening, they had concluded it must be a wolf, but no reasoning for its seeming loyalty could be found. There was no magic, no curses or spells, no laws of surprise offered to pregnant wolves that could explain the presence of the animal. It didn’t seem to want shelter, and offered food was only touched occasionally. Any attempts at luring it out of the forest failed, as the wolf seemed to know when they were watching. 

Geralt didn’t attack his brothers more aggressively during their training when the only consistency they could find was that the wolf didn’t seem to want to accept anything from Geralt, nor show itself when Geralt was nearby.

He also didn’t resent Vesemir when he told them one morning that he had seen the wolf prowling around the castle, and that when he had spoken to it, it had sat down and listened, its head slightly tilted and bright blue eyes surprisingly intelligent.

And that spring, when he travelled south and heard the creature following him, he most certainly didn’t feel relieved.

That was, not after he heard the news that the famous bard Jaskier had gone missing, hadn’t been seen in almost a year. Rumours were that the last time he was spotted, was in the presence of a certain white-haired witcher.

His arrival in larger cities was met with thrown rocks and angry insults. 

He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be called a butcher and a murderer.

It was yet another reminder never to get attached.

* * *

The first coherent thought in Jaskier’s mind as he carefully made his way down the mountain was his internal surprise that he wasn’t crying. In all the songs of heartbreak and rejection, there were tears, heartbroken cries of anguish and dramatic falling to the knees. But the reality was that Jaskier was empty. Completely and utterly empty. For once he was devoid of words, devoid of song, devoid of poetic descriptions, laughs, chatter, of everything that made him the apparently so burdensome travel companion as he was. 

The second coherent thought in Jaskier’s mind as he gathered his stuff from the inn and made his way into the forest was that he was lucky he never showed his more useful side to the Witcher. If he had, his broken heart would now most likely be literally torn to pieces. Geralt didn’t kill monsters, only if they hurt others. 

And isn’t that what he did?

* * *

It took him half a day to find a body of water large and still enough to reflect his entire length. On the edge of the cave’s pool, lit by a hole in the ceiling letting in the midday sunlight, he started taking out his belongings, dividing them into three neat piles of ‘keep’, ‘toss’ and ‘hide’. The cavern itself gave ample opportunity for ‘hide’, and whatever he deemed unworthy of keeping was tossed in the ice-cold water. Whilst he waited for the stillness of the water to return, he methodically packed the rest of his belongings, taking in each item with precision. 

A spider building his web in the opening between the light bright world of the insects and the darkness of the cave the eight-legged creature preferred, looked down at the strange man below him. He seemed to stare into the water for an eternity, before the form shifted, turned, and ran.

* * *

He didn’t necessarily  _ plan  _ on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all. Sure, there were quicker ways to reach the undiscovered regions north of Haakland, but those weren’t safe. Passing through planes and cities in this shape would certainly cause his end. 

Jaskier told himself that travelling as a human would only slow him down.

He told himself that he couldn’t perform with this emptiness inside.

He knew that was nonsense, he knew he could act, pretend, and nobody would notice.

He followed Geralt anyway.

* * *

It was almost as if the past two decades hadn’t happened. It was almost as if he was still a young wolf, on his way back home after receiving his education, following a mysterious rider smelling of adventure and death and destiny. 

Like last time, it took Geralt an embarrassingly long time to notice his presence. Unlike last time, he had gotten quite good at timing his footsteps to match that of Roach’s. And unlike last time, Geralt had thrown meat and bones in his direction. 

Jaskier refused to eat. He could take care of himself, without being a burden. 

He made sure to take a different route that night, knowing the direction in which Geralt was headed. He was practised with catching up to the Witcher by now, he was almost surprised that he had been able to find the man at all. If he was the cause of all of Geralt’s suffering, you’d think someone with Witcher training would be able to avoid him.

Then again, you’d think someone with Witcher training would know what he was.

* * *

After fighting a lost garkain without Geralt noticing a thing, Jaskier decides to follow the man for the Witcher’s own safety.

He does not allow himself to think about why Geralt is so out of form that he doesn’t notice a garkain following him for a full day, or the fight happening less than fifty miles from his camp. Instead, Jaskier blames the rain for Geralt’s sudden ineptitude. 

He rejoins Geralt after he exits the village where he, according to two children playing witcher-and-monster a little too far into the woods, has defeated a freightener. He ignores every offering of food the Witcher throws in his direction. Not even when the man stupidly yells into the forest that the food was meant for him. There are enough squirrels and rabbits to hunt himself.

He never allows the Witcher to see him.

* * *

They are about a two-days journey away from Kaer Morhen when Geralt addresses him again. ‘You can’t follow me inside, you know. A castle isn’t fit for wild animals to thrive. You should go back. To your territory. To your family, if you have one. And if not, I am sure that you will be able to start one, if you are strong enough to follow me this far.’

If Jaskier were human, he’d laugh. ‘What do you think I am doing,’ he thinks instead. ‘Where do you think I am going? My territory is not where you finally noticed me following you. My territory is here, with you.’

It’s that last thought that makes him halt. His territory isn’t the Haakland’s mountains anymore, it isn’t the pack he left behind, nor is it Oxenfurt, nor is it any court he has performed at. His territory for the past twenty years has been Geralt.

But Geralt’s territory has never been him.

He follows Geralt to the top of the mountain and then makes his way down to await the Witcher’s brothers.

* * *

Eskel notices he is being followed after an hour. Lambert after fifteen minutes. As some sort of price, he allows the Witcher to see him, for just a bit. 

He graciously accepts the offered food. He stays on the mountain, unable to leave his territory. 

He knows it’s pathetic, he knows he should leave, he knows he will easily be able to take up the position as Alpha and lead his family through Haakland and beyond. 

He stays near Geralt anyways.

* * *

It is well into December when he hears three pairs of footprints and silent banter echo through the forest he has now gotten to know so well. The Witchers, out for a hunt. He shrugs, listens where they are headed, and turns to run the other side.

He follows them, of course. And when he sees a lost deer that could feed him for the next month to come, he chases it towards them.

He wastes his precious energy that night dragging their pitiful offering back to the castle’s gate. An Alpha takes care of his pack, not the other way around.

He only eats from their offered food thrice. Twice out of politeness, and once because he is desperate. There isn’t much game and the mountain is cold.

* * *

He doesn’t approach the castle when he knows Geralt is watching. He knows the others have seen glances of him, and he secretly wonders if Geralt is frustrated that he is the only one who hasn’t. He wonders if Geralt has even noticed that he is the only one who hasn’t seen him.

In mid-February, during a particularly bright night, Vesemir talks to him. It’s mostly stuff Jaskier already knows: about who and what the Witchers are, about their history, about their home. But it is also things he doesn’t know. Vesemir tells about Lambert’s love for a Witcher from a different school, about Eskel’s insecurities regarding his scars, and finally, right before dawn starts to break, Vesemir tells him about Geralt. About how he most tortured of the children adopted into in Kaer Morhen managed to find joy on the Path in the shape of a brightly-coloured bard, who followed him and cared for him relentlessly for twenty years. About how he could finally let go of the heavy burden of his responsibilities, how he could finally see it as a joy rather than an oppressive fate. About how he realised the mortality of this human bard when he visited a village just as the little boy whose life he once saved was being carried to his grave by his grandchildren. About how all of the Witchers learned to never get attached. About the danger of the wolf being there, for it is clear the inhabitants of the ancient castle are getting attached to his weird loyalty.

That spring, Jaskier follows Geralt on the Path. He is his territory, after all. 

Jaskier is too forgiving. When Geralt exits the first big city with wounds and quickly forming bruises, he is once again reminded the rest of the world is not.


	2. The Wild Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a mention of suicide.

He had thought it had been a misunderstanding, a mistake, some sort of error. Surely Jaskier would be teaching in Oxenfurt, or flirting with Countess de Stael, or gracing the court of some king or other with his presence and performance. But as time went on, and village after village and city after city and person after person confirmed that the famous Jaskier had indeed disappeared, Geralt started to panic.

His first instinct was to travel back to the last place he had seen Jaskier, to trace him from there. So that was exactly what he did. He asked for information in the villages he passed along the way, some of them more helpful than others. He didn’t fail to notice that every place seemed to have at least one citizen who, though eying him suspiciously, was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Geralt knew that Jaskier’s songs were widespread and popular, but he had never truly appreciated their effects until now. 

It wasn’t till the first rain of stones landed on him that he had realised just how long ago it had been since the last time anyone had chased him away like that. And what had he said to Jaskier the last time he had seen him, maybe the last time he would ever see the bard? Something about ‘if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands’? 

He didn’t want to admit it, but the pressing silence without the ever-chattering bard on his side got to him. He didn’t even talk to Roach anymore, his tongue too heavy to fill the unfamiliar quiet around him. In the past two decades, he had grown accustomed to telling Roach what he wanted to tell Jaskier but couldn’t, but now there were no more words to say. What did Roach care that they would rest in an hour, that they would reach a village before nightfall, that the bird whistling in the distance was a rare black redstart?

The wolf still followed him, and still refused to accept any food. Instead, the creature occasionally left freshly-killed prey for him to find, like some invisible guardian, as if Geralt were some young pup unable to take care of himself.

* * *

They were a day’s travel away from the mountain when Geralt addressed the wolf for the first time since leaving Kaer Morhen.

‘I don’t-’ the words sounded broken in his untrained throat. ‘I don’t know when exactly you started following me, but we’re near the mountain range where I first noticed you. Well over 200 miles west of there, but still.’ He stared into his small fire for a while before speaking once more. ‘I’m here to find a-’ he fell silent once more. How could he even begin to describe what Jaskier was to him? ‘A- a friend, I suppose. Although I never told him that. Instead, I was a dick.’ Now that the words were coming he couldn’t stop. ‘I blamed him for everything wrong with my life, even though none of that was his fault. He didn’t tell me to claim the law of surprise, that was my own stupid fault. And I made the wish that almost made him die. And- And I can’t even count the number of times that the money he earned allowed me to eat, allowed me to bathe, allowed me to sleep in safety. And what did I do to repay him? Chase him away, like I do with every mortal that comes too close. I’m an idiot.’

If he wasn’t terribly afraid of chasing away the one thing that voluntarily stayed with him, he would have screamed.

The next day, at the bottom of the mountain, he decisively walked into the forest, towards the place he had run away from what seemed like so long ago.

When he didn’t hear the steps of the wolf following him, he pretended it didn’t hurt.

* * *

The forest floor revealed no footprints. The flowery cover of Jaskier’s scent had long since faded away, although the distinctive autumn pinewood smell that had followed him for two entire decades had not ceased to tease his nose ever since the fateful day he had cursed the man and left him for dead. Geralt knew it was foolish, knew that there was no way of knowing where Jaskier had gone, but he trudged on anyway. 

The forest was filled with caverns and caves, some leading to long, dark, winding underground mazes, others leading to deep, endless pools or fast-rushing waters. The small relief that no monsters - save for himself - seemed to be roaming these woods was undone by his rapidly growing anxiety that Jaskier could have gotten lost  _ anywhere _ . One wrong turn, one misstep and the bard could have fallen to his doom, or gotten lost in the tunnels carved out by centuries of streaming water. If Jaskier was truly gone, had truly disappeared into these woods never to be seen again, then- 

Geralt didn’t dare finish that thought. Instead, he entered yet another cave and yelled the bard’s name, desperately wishing he wouldn’t find a rotted skeleton clad in red leather. 

He continued combing through the forest and its caverns as the sun set, using the light of the waxing, almost-full moon as his guide. He was considering taking Cat when a sudden bark disrupted his search. In the distance, he could see the silhouette of a large wolf. It barked again, before disappearing into a cave, reappearing moments later as if to see if Geralt followed.

Muttering to himself that he was going mental, Geralt grabbed Roach’s reins and followed. 

* * *

The cave the wolf had disappeared into was surprisingly light. Although the edges of the quiet pool would have been impossible for humans to see, the moon shining through the web-covered hole in the ceiling brightened the slippery stone and dark water more than enough for the Witcher’s eyes. More than enough for him to see a tuft of bright fabric poking out of a slit in the wall. More than enough for him to find sure footing whilst rushing towards it, more than enough for him to grab it, to touch it, to feel, see, smell,  _ know  _ that the shirt he was cradling, still smelling faintly of flowers through the damp, cavernous scent, was once Jaskier’s.

Geralt’s feeling of dread grew as he found more and more possessions of the bard hidden through the cavern.

Songbooks, lute strings, some coins, a comb, a dagger and an ornate ring.

And, as the angle of the moon slowly changed during the night and something glittering in the pool caught his eye, the freezing temperatures of the water was not the only reason Geralt shivered. Perfume bottles, a bag filled with clothes, rusted jewellery, tiny rotten wooden statues, various nicknacks and trinkets picked up during their travels, ones he had always teased Jaskier about when the bard complained about his heavy luggage. 

It was sunrise when Geralt finally left the cave and rejoined a nervous Roach. Next to her stood a large, grey wolf with piercing blue eyes reminiscent of the man who must, had, couldn’t possibly be otherwise than at the deepest bottom of the underground lake, deeper than he could dive. 

It was then that Geralt collapsed and cried.

* * *

They had been travelling for three weeks when Jaskier realised where they were heading. He had no idea why on earth Geralt would want to go back there, what there was to gain from visiting that cursed place where he had ripped Jaskier’s heart in pieces as if it were a loaf of soft bread served alongside a bowl of stew. Jaskier huffed. Living in the wilderness without his human body or talking companions had really taken away his more poetic tendencies.

He still followed, though he lingered wherever he could. That aching emptiness that had taken hold of him the moment Geralt had revealed his true sentiments, the void that had slowly started to mend itself as time went on, was torn open a little bit further with every step he took, every day they walked, every week that passed. Jaskier knew that if Geralt would climb that mountain back to the rock where it had happened, he would not be able to follow. 

If Geralt climbed the mountain, Jaskier would turn and join his family for good. 

For a moment, Jaskier feared that Geralt knew, that he had unmasked his disguise and was travelling to the mountain on purpose, as some sort of cruel punishment for continuing to follow him, against the man’s deepest wishes.

With every step closer to the mountain, that fear grew.

A day before they would arrive, the Witcher spoke, and Jaskier feared no more.

* * *

That night, as Geralt lay asleep, Jaskier slipped away in the direction of the forest where he had left his belongings. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

It was midday by the time he heard a familiar, rough voice call his name in the distance. 

The sun had set by the time the Witcher came even remotely close to the correct cave. Jaskier stood and watched as the man methodically entered, searched and exited each cave, yelling a name he hadn't heard in almost a year. The forest, the caves, the chill in the air, the memories of the words spit in his direction not that far away from here tore through his heart as the voice breaking through the silent forest became more and more desperate.

When Geralt moved to step into a cavern Jaskier remembered lead to a steep drop into rapidly rushing water, he barked.

And immediately cursed himself for doing so. But it was too late, the man had heard. Of course he had, and now Jaskier had no choice but to act, but to point out the cave in which he had hidden his possessions, to lead him away from the danger Jaskier himself had almost fallen in. The gods only knew what would happen.

Jaskier closed his eyes and tried to be thankful that he at least got almost another year of being with Geralt. 

Besides, Jaskier was pretty sure he would be able to outrun and outhide the Witcher in this environment, if worst came to worst.

The outcome he didn’t expect was the man coming out of the cave soaking wet, collapsing in front of him and crying.


	3. The Wild Embraced

Jaskier was dead. And clearly not through an accident either, if the carefully stowing away of certain possessions was anything to go by, although why some items were thrown in the water was unclear. Not that it mattered, not that any of it mattered. Jaskier was dead, _Jaskier was dead and it was his fault_ . All the stones, the curses, the attacking fans had been right in their judgements. Geralt _had_ killed the bard, even if the weapon wielded hadn’t been a sword, or an arrow, or a carefully placed Sign. Instead, the poison of his words had been the thing that had extinguished one of the only sources of light in the Witcher’s life. And why wouldn’t it, for a man who held words in such high esteem?

Geralt barely felt the pain in his knee as a jagged stone pierced through his skin when he collapsed onto the ground. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway.

‘I’m sorry,’ Geralt sobbed to the ground, to the slowly rising sun, to nobody in particular and the world around him. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never should have-’ his voice broke as the wolf jumped down and licked his tears. The creature that had followed him for so many miles, for so many days, through all kinds of weather and was still there, still _here_. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness, I don’t-’ he reached out his hands to push the wolf away, to yell at it, to stop its foolish pursuit, but when his fingers touched the soft fur he instead held on tight, pushing his face into the grey hairs and breathing in the pinewood smell. ‘Why are you following me? I- I’m a monster. I kill everyone close to me. Renfri, Jaskier... You’re not safe here.’

The wolf didn’t free himself from the Witcher’s grip, didn’t bite and wriggle and squirm itself free, didn’t scratch or run or bark or howl. It just rested its head on Geralt’s back as the man sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. ‘I’m sorry Jaskier, I am sorry.’

* * *

Have you ever met somebody and you didn’t quite catch their name, and now you have been friends for the longest time but you still don’t know what they’re called? Or have you ever not been paying attention to a conversation, leaving you at a loss for words when someone asks your opinion about the subject matter? Or have you ever changed into a wolf, followed the embodiment of home around until he thought you were dead, whilst you were very very very much alive? It was exactly like that that Jaskier felt when Geralt’s hand dug into his fur, apologising with a broken voice to what he believed to be a dead friend.

The first time Jaskier had seen Geralt pet a street dog with his strong, callused hands, Jaskier had wanted to turn in that exact moment, wanted the man to thread his fingers through his fur, curl up against him during cold nights, ran with him through the endless wilderness connecting the Continent’s cities and stretching far into the unknown.

When Geralt, later that night, had returned with the head of a rabid werewolf he had been hired to kill, Jaskier took the stage and performed his song, avoiding the curious stare of the innkeeper’s guard-dog Geralt had pet on his way to their room.

The next time he dreamt of fingers threading through his fur, he knew it was a dream that never could come true.

* * *

Jaskier knew he had to free himself, knew that the tight grip he was in now would squish any human, break their bones and their possessions.

It wasn’t till Roach’s loud whinny broke through the Witcher’s silent sobs that Jaskier wriggled himself loose, jumped from rock to rock until he was standing on top of the cave Geralt had exited, and let his bones and skin turn into the familiar shape he had inhibited for twenty long, long years.

* * *

If there is one thing a Witcher knows, it is that nothing lasts forever. No love, no life, no happiness nor even the Path is everlasting. Eventually, every Witcher grows slow and dies. It is the individual’s task to cherish the moments whilst they last and move on when they don’t.

Geralt had never been very good at that last part.

When his tears dried up and the wolf wrestled free, he was tempted to hold on to the beast, force it into his embrace for even a moment longer, but he knew it wouldn’t do. Reluctantly, he saw the animal jump up over rocks and bushes until it was seated out of his reach up high on top of the grave of the person he once refused to call home.

The wolf closed its eyes, tensed its muscles, and changed.

* * *

It was tradition for his kind to live and study amongst the humans once their minds and bodies had grown sharp and strong enough to make the journey to where the people lived. Any Lupinis, for that is what they had called themselves, could then choose where to roam, whether to walk the earth on two or four or either feet. Jaskier was the only one of his litter born a human, so his parents weren’t surprised when their son did not return and reports of his success amongst the bipeds reached their home.

Jaskier had returned once, warming the winter with stories of his adventures travelling through the Continent and spreading his songs. Both his forms had grown strong and fast and wise.

That winter, the Haakland mountains had echoed with song and strums and howls.

* * *

One of the features of his kind was that they never forgot a face. The Haakland caves are covered in mirrors brought back by travelling wolves visiting home. As long as you knew exactly the shape you were in, the clothes you were wearing, the items you carried as you turned, they would still be with you when you changed your fur back to skin, paws back to hands and fangs back to teeth. When Jaskier looked down at the baffled Witcher below him, he knew he looked exactly like he did the last time he had seen his own human form: a satchel on his hip, his lute on his back, and a bright red leather jacket covering his smooth skin.

‘Hello.’

His voice sounded rough, broken, apologetic and ashamed.

* * *

His voice sounded heavenly.

The faint buzz of his medallion, the distant aching in his knee and the biting cold of the breeze on his soaked skin were the only things that proved to Geralt that he was still alive, that he hadn’t drowned in the dark pool below and joined whichever afterlife awaited for those whose journey in the living world had ceased to be.

Either the heavens and hells were different than the priests proclaimed, or he had finally gone completely barking mad.

‘I’m sorry,’ the voice continued. ‘I know I should have left when you told me to,’ the blue-eyed form stated. ‘I know I should have said something earlier,’ the young man’s mouth uttered. ‘But I was- I was afraid. And I swore an oath to keep me secret. Our kind is hard to kill, but it is not impossible. I- If you want me to, I will leave.’

Geralt stood and stared at the figure, his face almost as broken as it had been when his words had cut through his lips straight into the heart of the man who had been his companion, his friend, his home. The man who had cared for him when no one else would, who had laughed at his jokes, understood his grunts, had literally sung his praises as they walked through the wilderness across the known world.

It wasn’t till the vision turned around and started to leave when Geralt found his voice.

* * *

‘Wait.’

Jaskier halted in his steps but did not turn to face the source of the sound.

‘Wait,’ the man behind him repeated. ‘Are you real?’ he continued, after a beat.

‘As real as any of us ever are,’ Jaskier replied, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to betray the sadness in his throat, the pain in his heart, the dreadful echo in his head reminding him of the finality of this moment, of the end of the future he had never dared to imagine, of the long trip ahead of him to rejoin the family that wasn’t _his_ anymore across the mountains ready to accept him with open arms and melodic howls and endless hunts.

‘Were you the one that followed me?’

‘I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Jaskier sighed, turned around and looked down into the yellow, hopeful eyes below. ‘Because you’re my territory. You’re my pack. An Alpha never abandons his pack.’

‘Even after all I did?’

‘Even after all you did.’

* * *

They sat and spoke, that day. Geralt below next to a small fire, Jaskier above basking in the sun.

They spoke of the mountain, of their fears and their worries, their pasts and their present and, as the sun disappeared behind the trees and down where none could follow, whether mortal or monster, they discussed the future. _Their_ future, and all it could bring.

The first thing it brought, was forgiveness.

The second thing a peaceful rest.

In the weeks and months after that, a slowly rebuilt friendship, one based on talks and trust and helpful treatments.

During their first contract, the kikimore stood no chance between the white sharp teeth of a large, grey wolf and the cutting silver wielded by the man in black. A colourful bard and a smiling Witcher came to collect the bounty.

That winter, a fifth wolf stayed in the Witcher’s castle, filling it with song and warmth and freshly-hunted meat.

The next, a village on the foot of the Haakberg mountains sold supplies to a strange, white-haired man with yellow eyes travelling into the wild with a large, grey wolf the people knew was neither wolf nor man, but something in-between.

* * *

Through the years in the Continent, on cold spring and autumn nights, the rabbits and squirrels and deer avoided the strange camp where a fire burned and a Witcher cradled his closest friend, his home, his companion, his everything and more.

Jaskier’s dreams of callused fingers threading through his fur, of careless kisses on his tanned skin, of watching the wild fly past him as Geralt’s legs tried to match his four-legged speed in the endless chase for freedom and happiness and love were dreams no more, but blissful reality.

And, Geralt considered, as he, many years later, watched from the shadows of the inn as his husband performed, although all may not last forever, there was nothing that could stop him from enjoying the memories of happiness, the moments of contentment, the love-filled days and futures full of forgiveness and grace. For even when the fights were rough, the nights were cold and the Path was cruel, they were fought and spent and walked together.

Later, as his fingers traced the soft skin of the man asleep next to him, Geralt realised that not all impermanence led to sorrow.

And if embracing impermanence meant embracing the Wild, this was a damned handsome Wild to embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


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